On Courage and Matters of Conscience
by noenigma
Summary: In the end, every man has to live with himself...and sometimes that isn't the easiest thing to do. An original story pulling in moments from both Inspector Morse and Lewis.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: I usually resist posting before a story is complete because I never know when it may abandon me for months at a time (this one is an all-too good example of that, my computer tells me I started it Jan. 14th, and only now has it decided it's ready to be done). For reasons I can't really explain, I'm making an exception with this one and will be posting it chapter by chapter over the next little bit. Though you never know, I don't suspect it will abandon me now as all the original bits and pieces right down to the end line are finished in the rough. It's only lacking the scene write-ups from the show and as that means I get to watch some of my very favorite Lewis moments—shouldn't be a problem.

Disclaimer: Purely for fan purposes—no copyright infringement intended.

**On Courage and Matters of Conscience**

"You have nothing on him…let him go," Innocent told him with a decisive nod. She stretched out the file, but he left it there between them.

"He's the killer, and you know it," he told her.

"Then prove it," she ordered, waving the file at him. The look on Lewis' face when he finally reached out should have been enough to give her pause, but she chose not to see it.

Before he marched out the door, he turned and demanded, "Why'd you become a copper?"

"What?"

"Why'd you become a cop? What are you doing here?"

"I hardly see how knowing that will help your enquiries, Lewis."

"Just answer the question. Why did you become a copper—because if you make me release him…there'll be another murder within a day! On your hands! So, tell me, why are you here? Is it just a pay-packet to you? Rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty? Does protecting innocent people have nowt to do with it?"

"Get out, Lewis! Now! If you are so certain he's your killer, get out there and prove it!"

"All I need is—"

"I don't care—just get out!" He shook his head at her before stalking away. She flew across the room and shut the door behind him. Leaning her back against it and blinking away hot, angry tears, she fumed, 'How dare he?' But she couldn't keep up her anger for long because she couldn't think of one time he'd seriously miscalled a murderer. Played around with the idea of one or another innocent of the crime, but never vehemently said, 'This is the one,' and been wrong.

As the burning heat of her anger was lost under the cold dread of his certainty, she groaned and breathed quietly into the accusing silence of her office, "What have I done?" But, even so, she didn't open her door and call him back, didn't pick up the phone and tell him to hold Philip Hafton for a bit longer.

_Why was she there?_ The pay was nice but hardly enough to sell her soul. Rubbing shoulders…she couldn't deny she liked mixing it up with Oxford's elite. It was a nice bonus, but her husband's standing in the business community won her that place as much as the job. It wasn't why she was there. How dare he presume she was there for any other reason than he was himself?

So, why was he the one beating his head against the ungiving wall of word from on high? Why was he the one on the side of the right while she was the one issuing orders that any fool could see were a mistake? Lord Philip Hafton had almost assuredly killed the man he believed to be his wife's lover, and now on her order he was going to be released to kill her as well.

_Why was she there?_ Lewis couldn't know and she hoped he'd never be in the place to find out just what pressures were on her. She'd been given the word to see to Hafton's release, and she had no way to fight it. She knew that. It would have been beyond futile…yet, Lewis had to have seen he had no chance in swaying her and still he'd taken his stand anyway.

He had less to lose though. He knew she couldn't very well chuck him out. At worst, he would have been taken off the case and forced to stand by why someone else did what he refused to do. If she'd bucked this order, she'd have stood the chance of losing everything. Not the money or the position…because regardless of Lewis' insinuations, they weren't why she was there. But the chance to intercede on the behalf of the men and women like Lewis…the ones out there busting their guts to see justice done, to protect the innocent. It was a fine line she walked every day and this…a peer of the realm held in custody on suspicion of murder?

Lewis was lucky he'd been able to keep Hafton for the short time he had—and didn't he know how much she'd had to wheedle to give him those few measly hours? Did he really believe he could drag a lord down to the nick as though he were nothing more or less than the shopkeeper from the corner shop? Could he really be that foolish?

No. Surely not. So why'd he drag the whole mess into her station in the first place? She didn't need to ask herself that. She could still hear the certainly with which he'd stated there'd be another murder within the day. He'd known what he was doing bringing Hafton into the station…he'd been trying to keep a woman alive. If that put him in the firing line, he either hadn't considered or hadn't cared.

He knew what he was doing there; he knew why he was a copper. And she knew for herself as well—only it just wasn't that easy.

So, Hafton walked out of the station, and she'd have to trust Lewis and Hathaway to find proof that couldn't be swept under the rug or dismissed before the lord murdered his lady and left Innocent with blood on her hands. What were the odds the man, if he were guilty as Lewis charged, would have the aplomb to carry out a second murder knowing the inspector was gunning for him? Surely, he'd lie low and give Lewis the time to gather his proof and make a case…surely.


	2. Chapter 2

Lewis had trusted Hafton's arrogance to bring him to the interview and allow him to be maneuvered into leaving his security goons and others of his retinue far enough from the interview room to effectively give Lewis the free reign to place the lord into custody. And the ploy had worked. Only, having no other choice, he'd trusted the chief superintendent to stand up to the higher-ups and give him the time he needed to break down Hafton's wall of haughty superciliousness. She'd let him down badly, and now his time was up.

It could be hoped, surely even assumed, that the lord would be duly warned, and Lady Hafton was safe from his murderous rage for the moment…only, Lewis had seen the look in Hafton's eyes. Seen it and known it. The man was bent on revenge and murder. He believed his position in life put him above the law, and he had no intention of letting the police come between him and what he considered his rightful vengeance. No, Lady Hafton was far from safe.

"Get a call through to the wife…tell her to get out of harm's way," Lewis ordered his sergeant before tromping down the hall to begin the process of releasing Hafton. One phone call would have seen the man out the door in only a matter of minutes, but Lewis wasn't done. He stalled as long as he could in releasing Hafton all the while piling on the pressure. He wanted the man to be very aware that as much as he thought he was above the law, Lewis thought him very much under it. By the time, Innocent appeared glowering over him to force the issue, Hafton was seething in rage.

All to the good as far as the inspector was concerned. He was much more able to protect himself than Lady Hafton.

"Off you go then, Sir," Lewis said pushing the door open for Hafton. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again quite soon." Innocent gritted her teeth behind him, and Hafton huffed past in righteous indignation; Lewis turned his back on both of them and strode off down the hall. He had a job to do regardless of the pair of them.

Hathaway glanced uneasily over at his boss.

"What?" the inspector barked when he caught him at it.

"It's just…well, are you sure Hafton's our man? I mean…we have no witnesses, no DNA, no anything putting Haf—"

Lewis frowned at his sergeant in dismay and completed Hathaway's unvoiced objections, "Nothing but my dislike of the man." He sighed heavily and said, "Aye. I know, but I also know he's the killer…we've just got to figure out how to pin it on him."

"Pin it on him, Sir?" Hathaway asked quietly.

"Poor choice of words, Sergeant. He's dirty; we don't need to pin anything on him…"

"I certainly hope not," Hathaway said forcing himself to keep his voice level and meet Lewis' eyes.

Lewis wondered briefly about the trustworthiness of his fellow inspectors that Hathaway would be so quick to question his integrity. What sort of dodgy dealings had gone on that the sergeant had had to be a part of in the past?

But, it wasn't past experiences plaguing Hathaway. It was the inspector's attitude and his 'intuitive' leaps. The whole investigation felt wrong. With nothing linking Hafton to the murder or even the victim but Lewis' unsubstantiated theory that Hafton had drawn the wrong conclusion about Lady Hafton's nodding acquaintance with the victim and had gone for blood…with any other inspector Hathaway would have long before marched his way down to Innocent's office and made his concerns official.

But, Lewis? He had his prejudices it was true, but in the time they'd worked together the sergeant couldn't remember a time when the inspector had let them blind him to the facts of a case. Lewis might not care for the upper crust, but he'd never tarred and feathered them simply because they looked down their noses at him. Ruffle their feathers, certainly, but not find them guilty without due cause.

This time though. Hathaway had hated bringing it up, and he felt disloyal for even thinking it, but it had been beyond him to not. To stand by and tacitly let an injustice go on. To let an innocent man be hounded and persecuted, even if the man was the biggest prat the sergeant had ever run up against…no, he'd had to speak up. Matter of conscience.

Lewis watched the worry wash over his sergeant's face and sympathized. He'd been there, hadn't he? More than once. With Morse, with Johnson, with a sergeant way back when Lewis himself had barely been anything more than a raw recruit. It was a terrible place to be. Knowing what was right while everyone around seemed determined to do the opposite. Even—especially—those you'd liked and respected. And knowing to speak up, to take a stand, meant putting yourself in the line of fire and quite possibly destroying everything you'd had between you and them…not that by then you were necessarily all that keen on holding onto whatever that was. But when you did still care, still desperately wanted the man's approval and respect—

_"You can't arrest the man just because you don't like him," Lewis said._

_"More's the pity," Morse answered. Unfortunately, that had been his attitude ever since they'd walked into Boynton's LTD and Boynton had mistaken Morse for a potential mark—and his beloved Jag for a potential trade-in—and raised the chief inspector's hackles with his oily salesman pitch. As though, Morse had already tried and convicted the man. _

_The case was a difficult one to start with, and then Morse carrying on as though it didn't matter at all who he trampled underfoot in his rush to nail Boynton. It had almost been more than Lewis could stomach before the whole ugly incident that put Boynton in the hospital because of Morse's suspicions. The man could easily have been killed, but Morse didn't seem to realize that—or perhaps he just didn't care._

_To Lewis, who'd always admired and respected the chief inspector despite his rather unorthodox methods and insensitive nature, being forced to watch his senior office throw aside the law and go for expediency…he'd never quite see Morse in the same light again._

_It wasn't that Lewis didn't feel the same animosity towards Boynton (the man certainly seemed guilty; having the affair with the second victim, threatening the flatmate, lying, sneering at them all) or feel the same urgency about catching their killer as Morse. Or as Sergeant Maitland. In town lecturing at the College, Maitland was an expert on crimes against women, and Lewis, having attended her sessions when he'd managed to squeeze them in, had thought it would be a grand idea to bring her into the case as a consultant. But…she and Morse, they'd turned out to be as bad as each other. Intent on catching the killer before he struck again, they'd both lost sight of how things had to be done. Not like some cross-word puzzle but decently and in order. And legally. _

_Lewis had tried all along to bring some reason to the investigation; protesting Morse's most blatant indiscretions while still trying to keep him from losing respect with the lads and trying to do the job right. He should have pelted off to Chief Superintendent Strange, but he'd not been able to take that step. Not to Morse. Instead, he'd convinced himself Morse would never cross the line completely._

_And he'd been wrong. Terribly wrong. _

_"Is this..you, Sir?" he'd asked. The sandwiches Val had made for Morse still in his hands. A long evening the chief inspector had said…and Lewis like a fool had rushed home and back eager and ready to help. All that had transpired already, and he'd still been trying to keep from seeing Morse's feet of clay._

_Morse had answered easily, "Is this me going through Mr. Boynton's personal belongings? Absolutely."_

_"Do we have a warrant?" Lewis asked even though he knew good and well that if they did he would have been the one to file for it._

_Morse didn't seem too concerned. "Not as such. While I'm in here I want the rest of you to go and ransack the business files, the customer correspondence, service files...anything. We've got one night to come up with something...we'll put it all back in the morning."_

_Sergeant Maitland and young Dearden didn't say a word; it was left to Lewis. "No," he said._

_"No what?" Morse asked, and it was clear he didn't have a clue. He'd not expected trouble from any of them…Lewis regretted not being more adamant earlier. It should never have come to this. But there was no help for it. If he didn't stand his ground…_

_"No," he answered, "we can't do this, Sir…it's not legal."_

_Maitland finally spoke up—though not in protest, "What do you hope to find anyway?"_

_"Something, anything that proves that Mr. Boynton is a killer." Morse looked directly at Lewis as he continued. And Lewis looked back, willing the chief inspector to see reason. If Morse read his look, he didn't heed it. "It's an opportunity. If we can't find it, then nobody's hurt—" had Morse already forgotten that they'd just carried Boynton away to hospital? "–nobody knows. If we come up with something, then..."_

_Well, I'm up for it," Maitland said solidly in Morse's corner._

_"Yeah, me too." Dearden as well then. _

_Morse nodded and looked to Lewis expecting, no doubt, for him to fall in line with the others. Lewis gazed back at him, unable to believe it had come to this...knowing that things would never be the same. If he—and he couldn't, could he?—joined Morse in this, he'd never be able to live with himself. But…if he…Morse trusted him, relied on him. How could he throw that in Morse's face?_

_"Come on, Sergeant," Maitland said. "Going through car service records is not like reading someone's diary."_

_"We should have requested a warrant," Lewis protested because she was wrong._

_"I'm not going to get a warrant, am I? So there was no point in asking," Morse said in his lecturing tone, as though Lewis was just being obtuse. And not hearing at all his own words. If he didn't have enough evidence to obtain a warrant, they had no business digging through Boynton's trash let alone his records or diary._

_"Look," Morse said, "you go home, Lewis—if your conscience is pricking you so much."_

_"Yeah. I think I'm going to," Lewis said and his anger carried him quickly to the door. Morse let him go, but Maitland gave it one more try._

_"Let's just do it," she said._

_"I thought you stood for...all that stuff about working with the community? about community partnership? what does that mean, if you can go through someone's belongings without asking them or telling them?" Lewis asked._

_"Yesterday," she said, "Tim Ablett and Angie Howe asked me who the law protects. The Boyntons of this world or the victims like Jackie Thorn? And I couldn't answer."_

_And Lewis couldn't stand there any longer and listen to the 'good guys' flaunting the law they were there to uphold. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said to her, but it was for Morse. A promise he'd not quite severed all ties, a hesitant asking if there'd be a place for him at Morse's side if he reported to work in the morning. Morse averted his face and gave Lewis nothing back in return. Lewis swallowed down the lump in his throat, handed Maitland Val's sandwiches that he suddenly found still in his hand. He'd walked out then knowing his words had changed nothing. All the time together, all the shared cases between them, and Morse hadn't even heard him. (Nor Maitland for that matter though Dearden came rushing out at Lewis' heels and managed to keep his record and conscience clean.) *_

It hadn't been the first time Lewis had had to draw a line and stick to his guns, and it wouldn't be the last. But it had been the hardest. After that, perhaps he'd grown thicker skin, or maybe he had never again allowed Morse to hold such a sway over him. Though having stood his ground the once…well, Morse hadn't doubted his earnestness later when there'd been the mess with the Mary Lapsley case. He'd taken Lewis seriously enough then.

Morse's quiet, 'You're questioning my judgment, Lewis…I won't have that. You've leave coming. I want you to take it' had cut through Lewis like a knife. But it hadn't kept him from insisting Morse do what obviously needed doing. (Later, Lewis would know that 'Take your leave, Sergeant' had been an attempt to keep Lewis out of a case Morse had known might blow up in their faces rather than the professional jealousy Lewis had believed it to be, but…that had been later. ) So he'd been woefully wrong, but he'd still taken his stand, and Morse had known he'd meant it. **

But, Lewis had paid the price for it, and it hadn't come cheap. Lewis had no intention of ever putting anyone else between such a rock and hard place. Particularly not Hathaway. For Morse might never have really understood the kind of man his sergeant was, but Lewis well knew his. Hathaway needed…well, Lewis couldn't say just what it was Hathaway needed, but the lad depended on Lewis' approval and after the Will McEwan case *** and Crevecoeur**** Lewis wasn't so sure that if trapped between losing that approval and taking a moral stand Hathaway wouldn't break. Oh, he'd not cross the line—the priest in him would see to that—but they'd lose Hathaway. He'd walk away and never look back.

"You know," Lewis said in answer to Hathaway's worried expression, "I've been where you're at, Sergeant, I wouldn't put you in that sort of a spot. You doubt me, you doubt my objectivity, you doubt my judgment —I want to know it." Hathaway looked less than convinced, and Lewis went on, "Easier for you I reckon than it was for me with Morse. At least you know you've got a good chance of being proved right in the end—not this time, mind, but on occasion—me though… regardless of what put Morse's nose up he usually was right…put me in a bad spot calling him on his unsubstantiated manhunts knowing that ultimately justice would likely be served." And that finally earned Lewis a small chuckle and a release of a good deal of the tension Hathaway had been radiating.

He placed a hand on his sergeant's shoulder. "Not to fear, Sergeant," he said, "I've never pinned anything on anyone, and I won't be starting now…we'll bring Hafton in with all the _t_'s crossed and all the _i_'s dotted. That I can promise you. "

*_Driven to Distraction_ Inspector Morse

_**Second Time Around _Inspector Mors_e_

_***Life Born of Fire _Lewis

****_The_ _Dead of Winter_ Lewis


	3. Chapter 3

Hathaway seemed prepared to at last drop the matter, and Lewis was glad of it.

"The missus took your warning seriously, did she?" he asked as he turned back to rummage through the papers on his desk.

"I think so, yes. But…if you're right, Sir? Where can she really go that he won't follow her?"

Lewis glanced back over at Hathaway, "Hmmm?" he asked and then, dragging his thoughts around to what his sergeant had asked, added, "Nowhere more than likely…but anything to slow him down. She didn't like to think the worst of him, but I did me best to put the fear of God into her…"

"Sir," Hathaway protested weakly.

"I know, I know…not fair to either of them if he's innocent—but he's not," Lewis waved an accusing finger in the air, and refused to remember the turmoil Morse had put Boynton through only in the end to find he'd been completely innocent of the murder of those women. Please God, he wasn't making that same mistake. "And she best believe it. I told her to book a cruise or fly to the States…get out of England, that's what she needs to do—but doubt she listened to me."

"That won't slow a man like Hafton down for long at any rate," Hathaway noted.

"Nope," Lewis agreed readily enough. "This will though; well, we can hope so," he added, drawing from his coat pocket a well-worn passport. Hathaway gaped at him. Lewis shrugged. "I had a look at it, and…he forgot to ask for it back." He pulled a mailing envelope out of a desk drawer and scrawled an address on it, slipped the passport into it, sealed it, and tossed it into the basket of overfilling papers on the corner of his desk. "I'll have to remember and drop that by the dispatch office when I get a free moment," he said.

Despite himself, Hathaway gave a small amused snort… Lewis had no intention of 'remembering' to dispatch the passport anytime soon, and the sergeant had a feeling that a glance at the address would prove it was unreadable.

Lewis gave him a half grin in return, but his heart wasn't in it. He shook his head and tossed his pen down onto the desk. _Think, man, think._ There had to be something on Hafton. Something they could find and use to prove their case. His case because Hathaway was still more than a bit doubtful and Innocent wasn't even interested in making a case if it implicated a lord. Lewis shook his head again. Rich or poor, jealousy was a motive that couldn't be overlooked, an emotion that should never be underestimated.

And Hafton was as jealous as they came. They'd run into more than a couple of witnesses who had attested to that fact even if they'd taken the hush money and never filed the complaints. One-time, college boys who had lingered just a moment too long chatting with Marcia Craglyn before she'd married the man who would become Lord Hafton. A business associate who had phoned the house by mistake and exchanged a few pleasantries with the lady. Even a woman friend who'd been warned off because the lord wasn't happy with how much time she was spending with his wife. It had taken time and some bolstering words and hand holding, but he'd managed to get several statements that showed Philip Hafton in a less than flattering light. They'd help support the case, but they weren't nearly enough to build it.

They needed—he needed—what? Forensics had come up with sod all at the murder scene. If would be next to impossible to find something linking Hafton to the body or the scene. Motive was easy. Opportunity was trickier but not impossible…he'd seen rock-solid alibis fall apart, and he had no doubt that given enough time Hafton's would crumble. Someone would have seen him where he hadn't ought to have been when he hadn't ought to have been there, there'd be a glimpse caught on a traffic cam or security tape. Lewis had spent a good deal of his life tracking down those sorts of things. He could do it again. Back in Morse's day that's what the greatest portion of detecting had consisted of…the things they could do now in the lab and with digital records had been unimaginable back then. Still, that all took time, and he found it unlikely that Hafton was a believer in serving his vengeance cold.

Time wasn't on his side. Nor Marcia Hafton's…he couldn't use her for bait and he couldn't build a case on what the defense could all too easily call entrapment. Neither could he sit there and wait for the call out to her murder scene if she'd failed to take him seriously. He grabbed his suit coat and headed out the door.

"Sir?" Hathaway called after him.

Lewis paused at the door. After their earlier conversation he didn't know if it would be better to keep his sergeant safely away from what he obviously found troubling or to keep him close so he could see for himself all was on the up and up.

"I'm off to make sure Lady Hafton's heeded me warning…come if you like or stay. Up to you," he said and strode off without waiting to see which way Hathaway's conscience would lead him. In the end, every man had to live with himself; Hathaway as well as the next man.

Lewis waited in the car park longer than he would have liked and then he drove off alone.

He was unhappy, though not all that surprised, to find Lady Hafton at home. Indecision and a misplaced hope the man she'd married wasn't the murderer Lewis believed him to be keeping her from getting in her car and driving away. Lewis could understand. Hafton was her husband, the father of her children, the man with whom she'd shared her life—how could she believe him capable of murder? Short of bodily removing her from the premises, Lewis' hands were tied.

"Has he said when he'd be home?" Lewis asked her, restlessly shifting from side to side and jiggling the keys in his pocket.

"Late, he thought. He had some damage control to see to—Whitehall's not all that pleased with you taking him into custody and neither is the Party," she said. Her voice was free of any malice. She might not be able to convince herself Lewis was right, but she didn't doubt he was deadly serious about seeing no harm came to her. She might wish he'd suddenly realize he'd been terribly mistaken, but she couldn't fault his sincerity or intentions. "You're not worried…about your job?" she asked with concern evident in her own voice. "He could see you out on the street."

"Nope," he said and left it at that. The job…days like today he could hardly remember why he'd ever wanted to be a copper to begin with.

It was useless to stay there trying to convince her of a truth she didn't want to know. "I'm off then," he said, "seeing there's no way I can talk you out of staying?"

"No. I'll be fine. Perfectly safe. You'll see, Inspector."

He reluctantly nodded his farewell and left her to her chances. Sitting in his car watching her door would be next to worthless as far as protecting her and far too effective as a means of stirring Hafton up even further.

He spent a restless night dreading the call out.

It came all too soon. Hafton, helpless and distraught, in the face of his wife's 'suicide', his 'I can't believe it' quickly turning into hot denunciations, 'your doing, Inspector…you and your unfounded accusations—you drove her to this! I'll have your job for this.' The fact none it came as a surprise to Lewis did not make it any easier to take.

The kind, gentle woman he'd tried to save dead in her over-sized bath, the smell of death almost overridden by the rose scent in the cold bath water. Her blood surely on his hands as much as her husband's, her death his responsibility though he'd done everything he knew to keep it from happening.

And Hobson, Hathaway, and the rest of the team, white-faced and silent, listening to it all. And who knew? Perhaps even believing it. Innocent glowering with her arms tightly crossed across her chest and her eyes narrowed. And Lewis, heavy-hearted, torn between handing Hafton his badge and warrant card or holding on to them so he could bring the man to justice.

In the end, he might as well have handed them over.


	4. Chapter 4

Innocent, her words clipped and her voice hard, "There will have to be an investigation, Lewis. Hafton's accused you of driving that woman to her death. IPCC has been called in." IPCC, the Independent Police Complaints Commission…formal allegations had been filed. Against him. Well, Lady Hafton had tried to warn him, hadn't she? Still, he'd never, not in a million years, thought it would come to this.

Lewis never said the words threatening to erupt from him. Not a question. An indictment. _And you believe him. _He would have liked to have railed and thrown his warrant card and badge in her face. But railing was beyond him at the moment. He'd stood in this office and told Innocent that Mrs. Hafton would be dead within the day and that her death would be on Innocent's hands; but he'd been wrong there. Regardless of what Complaints found…Mrs. Hafton's death would always be on Lewis'.

He said, "Yes, Ma'am," placed his warrant card and badge on her desk and walked away.

She followed him to the door. "Lewis," she began softly, but he gave no sign he'd heard and what could she say? Her regret wouldn't help him, her assurances that she now did believe him, that she had done everything in her power to keep it from coming to this…they'd do him no good.

She quietly closed the door behind him and stood there fingering his warrant card holder. It was still warm from his pocket. The leather case worn and soft from years of use. She had blinked down hot, angry tears in his wake the day before, but today her eyes were dry though there was a pain cutting deep into her. And the awful truth that she'd done this. She wouldn't take the blame for Marcia Hafton's death, everything the law could do, it had done…her death had been out of all their hands. But this…

This was all on her and she didn't know how to fix it for all the tea in China.

Hathaway was waiting for Lewis when he got to their office…standing awkwardly behind his desk, his face strained and white. The news had traveled that fast. Lewis had hoped to beat it out the door. Instead he'd have to walk through the halls and out the main doors with everyone's eyes on him, everyone trying him before his investigation had probably even been assigned a case number.

"Sir," Hathaway said, and Lewis wondered if that was a studied choice of words or just habit. Hathaway had thought he'd been wrong to try to convince Mrs. Hafton her husband was dangerous—perhaps, he believed Hafton's accusations. Perhaps Hathaway didn't think Lewis was any longer entitled to that 'Sir' and the respect it carried with it. Perhaps he was just as ready to lay her death at Lewis' feet as everyone else seemed to be. He should have taken the sergeant with him the night before. Let him see and hear for himself that Mrs. Hafton had been as far from suicidal as anyone. She'd not liked what he'd suspected, but she'd not believed it either…she'd thought he'd be proved wrong in the end, a misguided, but kind-hearted soul. He hadn't left her with 'the balance of her mind disturbed' as the inquest was likely to find if someone, somewhere didn't start doing their job.

"I've just a few things to pick up, Sergeant…then I'll be out of your hair."

"What…what…"

"What, Sergeant?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Do? Your job, man…you're good at it. You don't need—nor have me—to tell you what you're about any longer. Just get out there and do it."

"Right, Sir," Hathaway said as though Lewis had made his way clear for him. Lewis shrugged and sat down at his desk. He opened the drawers and stared at the contents. Before it occurred to him that Complaints would frown on him carrying anything away, he realized there was nothing there he wanted to take with him. All those years and it had come down to this…rubber bands and extra notepads, pens, packs of forms, envelopes, and the stray paperclip. What had happened to the kids' colorings that used to hang on his walls? The spare key he'd kept taped to the inside of the bottom drawer for the times Val or the kid's had locked themselves out of the house? (And what was he to tell Lyn and Ken? They'd hear it soon enough if Hafton had his way…splashed all over the papers and the telly.)

There was Val's picture, but he had the same photo at home…no need to rile Complaints carrying it out with him. Only…he wouldn't want even her picture seeing them dig through his things and question the kind of cop he was. The kind of man.

He handed the photo to his sergeant. "I'd thank you to put this in your desk until they've had their snoop."

Hathaway accepted the picture without comment.

And then there was nothing for it but to walk out with his head held high. He'd not shuffle out looking guilty and ashamed. He'd done his job the best he could. Always. Every day. Regardless of what Hafton and his cohorts would be able to do to him, they'd never take that away. He'd lived his life and done his job with a clean conscience and if he was the only one who knew it…then that would have to be enough.

"I'll walk out with you, Sir," Hathaway offered.

"No need."

"All the same."

Lewis frowned at him, but Hathaway was a free man and Lewis could no longer tell him what to do. And he was thankful for the support. He was trying hard not to show it, but it was a hard thing, this walk out past his colleagues, people whose opinions he'd valued, people whose respect he'd done his best to earn.

It was not what he'd expected…curious eyes turned his way, quickly averted if he raised his to meet theirs; questioning looks wondering if what was being said about him was true; worse, judgmental stares saying all too plainly they believed it was. There were some…nodding acquaintances or even faces he didn't recognize at all; but the others…

The junior officers stood in the doorways, nodded their heads at him, and murmured 'Sir' as he and Hathaway passed; the senior officers, men he'd known and worked beside for years and years strode up to them and shook his hand. They patted his back and told him they'd see him back soon and not to worry…Innocent would have all their cards on her desk if it came to it. If Complaints didn't clear him—well…

Their trust and respect were harder to take than Lewis imagined their disdain and disgust would have been. He could have hardened himself to that, made himself impervious to it with the knowledge he had nothing to be ashamed of…but this. There was no way to protect himself from their kindness and regard.

And at the door, when he ventured to hold his hand out to his sergeant, the lad took it without hesitation, and then he patted Lewis on the back in an awkward movement that came close to being a hug.

"I'll do it, Sir," Hathaway said.

"What's that?" Lewis managed to choke out.

"My job…regardless of what influence Hafton might have on the misconduct investigation, I won't let him get away with the murders. I'll see him brought to charges." In the relief he felt knowing Hathaway did trust his judgment after all, Lewis could only nod his thanks. Later he would wish he'd warned the sergeant to be careful, but it had been too late then.


	5. Chapter 5

When he got home, there was Hobson waiting for him. Her face tight and pinched, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as though to hold herself together. Probably just chilly though the day was fair for it was Lewis who was having trouble holding himself together.

"Robbie," she said in greeting. He quirked his face in what was meant to be an answer for he had nothing to say.

She bit her lip and took his arm, and they walked together up the walk. He fumbled with his keys though the lock had never been particularly difficult before. She followed him in and closed the door behind them. He stood there silently, and she stood just as quietly beside him. More even for his hands were thrust deep into his pockets fidgeting with the change and keys they held. And he was the one who finally broke the silence with a deep groan forcing its way out of the open wound deep in his soul.

He brought his hands up to his face and said, "What am I going to tell the kids?"

"Oh, Robbie," she murmured, rubbing her hand across his bowed back. "There'll be no need for you to tell them anything. You'll be cleared and this will all be over long before they need to know about it."

He shook his head.

"If you want to tell them though…if you think you must, it'll be fine. They'll know it isn't true; they'll never doubt you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Anyone who loves you—anyone who really knows you—will know it isn't true. They'll never believe it."

He let out a long, wavering breath. "I can't…I…I just keep thinking…I…I'm glad Val's not here…how could I…what could I say? How could I tell her? She always believed in me, you know? Even when I wasn't so sure…"

Laura closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she put her arms around him. "She'd still believe in you, Robbie."

"I want to believe that, but…"

"Trust me, Robbie. I know she would."

"How?" he demanded, raising his head and looking directly at her for the first time since he'd arrived. And he read the answer clear in her face though she swallowed hard and tried to come up with an answer she thought he'd be more willing to hear. She must have been able to read his understanding in his face for she let the words die away unspoken.

And him going on about Val. And not considering what it meant that she was here with him when she'd ought to be at work…and when associating with him quite possibly wouldn't do her career any good. He groaned again and pulled her closer. Felt the reality of her in his arms, felt the wisps of her hair tickling his chin, her uncried tears in her wavering breath, her love for him in her presence.

"Sergeant," a woman's voice said from the office doorway. Hathaway looked up and surveyed her. Her and her partner. She didn't have to introduce herself for him to know she was Complaints not wasting anytime coming to take apart Lewis' life and career.

Hathaway stood up. He would have strode to the door and blocked her way if it would have made any difference. Or just kept right on going, leaving them to do what damage they could without him having to be a part of it. But that was why he was there instead of out vindicating Lewis. He wouldn't leave them to rifle through Lewis' things without someone being there to remind everyone present that Lewis deserved better. So, he stood there. Unwelcoming but they couldn't expect him to shake their hands and welcome them with open arms…not for what they'd come to do.

She took it all in and said, "Right then. I'm Deputy Senior Investigator Maitland…Investigator Joslin. We're here to—"

"To try to tar and feather my governor," Hathaway broke in. "But you won't find anything. Inspector Lewis is a good man…a good officer. This is all wrong."

"I suspect you're right, Sergeant. About the inspector. But you're wrong about us. We're here to clear Inspector Lewis of the accusations brought against him, not condemn him." He gave a small, disbelieving snort that she let go.

"He's innocent," Hathaway insisted, needing to say the words even though her own made his sound redundant.

"I believe you," she said, but he didn't believe her for an instant. He didn't try to hide that from her, couldn't probably even if he'd wanted to. "Listen, I don't expect you to be happy with us being here, Sergeant…but I suspect Inspector Lewis has taught you better than to try to obstruct our investigation. The more you cooperate, the sooner we can do what we have to do, and the sooner Lewis will be back to work, yeah?"

He grudgingly nodded his agreement.

"Good then…let's get to it."

There was nothing for them to find, of course. Not in the office, not in the interviews they scheduled, not anywhere. At least, not the sort of thing they were there to find. Hathaway thought the less they found, the more they'd be determined to find, and the longer they'd stay rooting around. That was the best he could hope…it could be worse. The less they found and the more determined they became the higher the chances that they'd give up digging for the truth and just start shoveling lies. Everyone knew the stories about these sorts of investigations. Hathaway wanted to believe they were just that, stories, but…the Pharisees hadn't found anything they could accuse Jesus with either yet they'd crucified Him all the same.

Though Hathaway was surprised she didn't send him, Maitland sent Joslin down to fetch sandwiches for their working lunch. While the man was gone, she made the call Hathaway had been dreading having to hear.

"Inspector Lewis? Deputy Senior Investigator Maitland, Independent Police Complaints Commission. I'm sorry but we're going to need to go over some things with you." Hathaway tried not to think of her words reaching Lewis and how they'd cut into him. "Yes, that's right. Maitland….I thought you would…wish it could have been under other circumstances, but we'll make it as painless as possible. We can do it here, at your place or somewhere neutral if you'd like?... No, I don't suppose you would like," she said, and Hathaway was horrified when she gave a soft laugh at that. She sobered quickly enough though. "Right," she said, "We'll finish this up as quickly as possible and do that…what's that? Yep, DSI…ta. And you to. Inspector." She seemed quite pleased with herself as she jotted down the details she'd just arranged with Lewis. Hathaway hated to think why.

But, he would have liked to have been privy to the details of her scheduled meeting with Lewis. Not that he could have shown up crashing the interview, but…still.

Maitland glanced up and caught him frowning over at her. "We'll be out of here before you know it," she assured him. "But…it still has to be done. What you and I know…" and Hathaway's frown deepened at her words for he didn't like her lumping herself with him or presuming they knew or thought at all the same, "…has to be substantiated. Much as I assume you're busy yourself substantiating Lewis' case against Lord Hafton?" Hathaway refused to rise to that bait. "So…we'll eat our soggy sandwiches, and then get your statement and let you get on, shall we?" As though his interview would be a simple formality easily dispatched.

Joslin took control of the interview; Maitland sat back and left her second to it. He had a harder, more suspicious edge than the DSI had yet shown Hathaway. She wanted him to believe she was on his side; Joslin could care less rather Hathaway trusted them, hated them, or was as indifferent as Joslin himself. Only that Hathaway answered his questions fully and truthfully. And if the sergeant's answers damned or redeemed his governor was of no concern to Joslin. The complaint investigator's attitude, manner, and hard clipped voice reminded Hathaway of trial lawyers he'd been cross-examined by in court. And by the time Joslin was done with him, he felt very much as though he'd been on trial and the jury was still out on his guilt or innocence.


	6. Chapter 6

Hathaway was only too glad to escape his office and go about the job Lewis had left for him.

But first…Lewis.

Hobson opened the door to Hathaway and he slipped through it into the quiet flat. The drapes were still drawn and the lights switched off, and Hathaway felt as if he'd walked into a house of mourning. Instead of a body laid out in the parlor, Lewis was sitting on the end of his sofa. Hobson sat down beside him, pulling her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs. Lewis glanced at her and up at Hathaway but said nothing.

Hathaway sighed in nervous discomfort. He stood as the silence grew more and more oppressive much as though he really was in a house of mourning and couldn't dredge up the words to express his sympathy.

Lewis eventually took mercy on him. "Sit down, Hathaway," he said. "And, yes, I'm here sitting in the dark feeling sorry for meself…Morse, you know…always sitting around in the dark, brooding. Turn on the light, man…that's what I always wanted to tell him when he got that way. And here I am."

"Sir," Hathaway murmured and threw him an uncertain half-grin because he couldn't come up with an intelligent response.

Lewis shook his head and continued. "Bloody coward—me, not Morse, he just….you know. Nothing to do with courage. But, here I am." Lewis sighed heavily. "Never been what you'd call a brave man, but…always thought I could hold me head up, you know? Turns out not so much."

Hathaway, who had walked down that hallway beside the inspector the day before, was having trouble processing Lewis' words. Never been a brave man?

"What are you on about, Sir? What about…Zoe's flat? The fire. You came in after me."

Lewis snorted. "Nothing brave about that…not me. Nothing else I could have done, eh? The flat was going up in flames that fast—I couldn't wait for Fire or you'd have gone up with it. Nah…It's no good, James. You've proven yourself the hero—twice now, isn't it? You've gotten me out of the frying pan? Me. I've never been a hero."

Hathaway laughed outright. Why was he not surprised? His inspector—the fact Lewis had known the flat had been going up in flames that quickly meant that he must have determined that either he faced those flames himself or he let his sergeant die. He'd made the choice and he'd done it...to Lewis that wasn't heroic or brave—simple necessity it seemed.

Lewis frowned at him and said, "Why do I think I'd rather not know what that's about then?"

Hathaway grinned at him. "Well, you are a hero to me, believe it or not."

"Not," Lewis said. He sighed again. "Another thing I'm not is a killer…I tried to convince Lady Hafton she needed to get out, sure, but I never…and I wouldn't have!"

"I know. I keep telling that to DSI Maitland and her henchman."

"Had your interview then?"

"Yeah."

"Too late to tell you to stick to the truth then—regardless of how bad it makes me look."

"Sir," Hathaway protested, "I don't have to lie to prove your innocence—and I didn't! "

"You wondered yourself though…that I was overstepping my bounds. Coming down too hard on her…"

Hathaway winced but said nothing. It wasn't an accusation Lewis was putting to him, just a statement of fact. One he couldn't argue against.

"But, it wasn't me. If anything I think my visit that afternoon reassured her more than put the fear of God into her…it certainly didn't convince her her husband was a murderer!" Hathaway who'd sat in on hundreds of interviews with Lewis found it easy to believe that Lewis' presence and soft voice could easily have calmed Mrs. Hafton down even while he'd been intent on warning her of her danger. Lewis could, and usually did, have a very calming, reassuring way about him, whether that was something else Lewis would believe or not. "As to the other …" Lewis began, "…lies. I'd never—"

"I know. They won't stick," Hathaway tried to assure him. As though charging Lewis with contributing to his wife's suicide hadn't been enough, Hafton had since accused Lewis of fabricating testimonies—apparently he'd gotten wind of the statements they'd gathered in the early days of the investigation before Mrs. Hafton's death. "I've taken Hafton's statement…claims he was kept away until he arrived home to find his wife dead. I'm working on his alibi…either we'll crack it or he sent someone else to deal with her—"

"He'd have done it himself," Lewis asserted. "Few reasons that…he'd want to exact his revenge himself, and he'd enjoy the feeling of power, domination, and—well, I think he'd want to in order to put one over on me. I'd threatened him hauling him into the station, daring to question him, not…kowtowing to him like some…be his way at getting back at me—that and this." Lewis glanced around his dark sitting room and frowned. "Seems to be working."

Hobson who had sat silent and unmoving throughout the conversation gave a small laugh and put a hand on Lewis' arm. "Turn the light on, man," she said.

He pursed his lips at her before saying, "I'll never get away with a thing now that you've come round, will I?"

"Wouldn't think so," she said. She inclined her head to him and asked, "Lights?"

"All right," he huffed and dragged himself off the sofa to switch them on. Behind his back Hobson made a very relieved face at Hathaway and mouthed a 'thank you'. Hathaway having only spent the few moments in the oppressiveness of Lewis' flat sympathized with the doctor. And he'd thought enduring the presence of Complaints had been difficult.

"Drapes?" Hobson asked after Lewis had dispelled some of the gloom. Lewis growled softly in return but turned back to open them as well.

"Always better to throw light on a subject," he said quietly as he stood blinking in the brightness of the sunlight. "Morse said that…" He snorted. "More depressed I am…the more I understand him." He'd turned to them as he spoke, and it was too late for him to avert his face when a wave of sadness and memories came unbidden to his mind.

_Morse, quiet and broken, on a veranda in Australia with the hot, sultry air weighing down on them and the lush, green beauty of land stretching unseen before them. Unfamiliar birdsong and unfamiliar fragrances…it had all seemed surreal to Lewis. Half the world away from home, waiting for Morse to walk into the sights of a killer. Morse, his face drained of all color and his soul of confidence, his eyes staring inward at a view Lewis couldn't share. But it wasn't fear of facing a man bent on killing him that had Morse so rattled. Nor even the fate of the Harding girl._

_"When justice miscarries, Lewis...when injustice is not only done but seen to be done..." Morse said. "I've always prided myself I've never sent anyone to prison who didn't belong there." Only now he had…or at least now he knew he had. And Peter Matthews hadn't survived his time in Her Majesty's Prison Service. _

_"You blame yourself too much," Lewis told him. "You know that. You're always blaming yourself." And Lewis was always there trying to jolly him out of it…or he always was there when Morse would allow him to be. Not that it ever did much good._

_"I have a lot to blame myself for. Three deaths to start with," Morse said. And then he listed them, giving each a weighty significance, "Peter Matthews. Lily Marchant. Mike Harding. He did kill himself. And it was because of me."_

_"You don't know that," Lewis protested._

_"I can't prove it. No. Anne was right though...Ron Pigot and I, we started in the force together. When he was killed in that raid, I wanted revenge. It's a powerful emotion. It blinds you. I let myself be blinded. I have to make amends."_

_"I still think it's too risky," Lewis said, and if he hadn't before he certainly would have with that 'I have to make amends' of Morse's._

_Morse attempted to brush Lewis' concerns aside. "I'm old and unmarried and don't understand human nature. What does it matter?" Everything, Lewis could have said, but that wouldn't have helped lighten the tension and regret in Morse's face._

_Instead, he tried a mocking, 'How old are you?' which failed miserably. Morse was too determined to hold on to his guilt. _

_"I forget, Robbie," Morse said as he raised his eyes and met Lewis'. If the unexpected use of his first name wouldn't have given Lewis his first glimpse of Morse's fears, the dark look in his eyes would have done. _

_"I could come with you," Lewis offered._

_Morse shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm the one he wants."_

_At that the Australian detective McAllister had popped his head out to reoffer Morse a gun. Morse had shaken his head one more time and said, "There's been enough deaths in this already." But the afternoon would end with Morse standing alone and shattered on the dusty tracks, his shirt and face splattered with another man's blood, and two bodies stretched out in the hot Australian sun* _

Lewis shook himself as though to shake off the memory. He swallowed hard against the tears rising up in his throat and pressed his hands under his eyes. Hobson came to stand beside him and rub his arm. He gave her a small, embarrassed smile and said, "Don't know where that came from…I miss him though." He sniffed, scratched the back of his head, and said, "Still…Hafton?"

"Right," Hathaway said, "Forensics might have something—"

"What?" Hobson demanded. Her softer, quieter manner not appearing to extend to Hathaway.

"Not sure…I'm to drop by this afternoon. I'm on my way there from here." They discussed another item or two, but really Hathaway had done what he'd come to do. He was off to Forensics soon thereafter.

*_The Promised Land_ Inspector Morse


	7. Chapter 7

The light of day had done little to relieve the gloom permeating Lewis' flat. He stood gazing at the photo of his wife on the shelf. Laura stood in the doorway, biting her lip and trying to keep thoughts of clinical depression from running through her head. Too early for worries of that, surely. He'd wouldn't be human if he wasn't depressed at the moment…but get a bit of time between him and the death of Lady Hafton, let the Complaints clear him of the allegations brought against him, get him over the hard part of facing everyone returning to work, and he'd be right as rain. In times like these, she regretted her inability to deceive herself.

She'd stayed as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, afraid at any minute he'd rally and find the energy to send her packing. She and Hathaway had both agreed he wasn't to be left alone in his state, but if he refused to let them support him…they couldn't very well force themselves upon him. So far, she'd managed to avoid forcing the issue, and, in fact, he'd accepted her presence without a murmur of protest. As though he welcomed her being there with him…but there he stood gazing at that picture of Val, and she couldn't help wondering if he was regretting having slept with another woman in his bed…not that anything had happened, of course.

"Ahh…I need my bed," he'd said with a low moan the evening before. It had been one of the few things he'd said since he'd arrived home in such a bad way that morning. She'd half-assumed it was a hint he thought it was time she was off home. They'd muddled through the day with him brooding or dozing as though he could sleep away everything that had happened and her holding her breath; the hours dragging so slowly she'd begun to wonder if they'd been lost in a time warp. He'd outright refused the simple lunch she'd brought him. He'd accepted his tea with a low, murmured 'thanks, Laura' (so at least he had known she was still there) but it had sat, growing cold on his lap, until she'd slipped it off to the kitchen.

He'd staggered up off the sofa and winced in stiffness from the hours of immobility. And then he'd cocked his head at her and said, "Come talk to me." As though he'd not given a thought about her leaving—or maybe, just maybe there had been a slight entreaty in those words. Maybe her leaving had been on his mind after all, but instead of wishing she'd leave him to his misery, he'd feared she would.

She'd followed him back to the bedroom where he frowned at her blouse and jeans before rummaging through a drawer to hand her a t-shirt and pair of well-worn sweats.

"Reckon you'll swim in 'em, but…" he'd said with a shrug, "it's only for sleeping,"

"They'll do fine," she'd assured him and headed down the hall to change. He'd already been in bed before she'd come and stood hesitantly in the doorway.

"Don't believe everything you hear—I don't bite," he'd said. She'd taken that as an invitation and slid into the bed on the opposite side. He'd turned to face her. "Didn't thank you for being here, did I?" he asked.

"No need."

"I'm not as…ungrateful as I probably seem…I just—"

"It's fine, Robbie."

"Good," he'd said and closed his eyes. And there she'd done it; he'd been ready to talk and she'd cut him off.

"Robbie?" she'd asked hesitantly though she could tell from his breathing that he was still awake.

Without opening his eyes, he'd said, "Talk to me, Laura…I can't…I need something besides my own thoughts rolling about in my head." And so she'd talked about anything, everything, and nothing until his breathing fell into the slow and regular rhythm of sleep. Totally innocent, but seeing him stand there in front of that picture…

She was afraid to call him on it. And she was almost as reluctant to talk about what had brought her to that doorway. She should have dashed off while Hathaway had been there though he'd been on duty and might have been called away at any moment. And she'd thought—when Hathaway had managed to get him to let some light in…well, she'd thought it might be just the ticket if she could get him out of the flat for awhile. Now…it didn't seem like such a good idea. What if he told her he not only didn't want to come with her but also that he didn't see the need for her to come back?

Still, she had to fetch some things if she were to stay…as soon as she'd heard the news of his suspension, she'd dropped her work into her second's lap (and why not? she'd not taken any personal time in donkey's years) and driven straight to Lewis'. It would have been impossible for her to have done anything else, but even though Lewis' sweats might work for the night, she was sorely in need of a change of clothes and the like.

"I've got to pop off home," she said to his back. He made a small sound she couldn't quite catch. She paused a moment to see if he'd repeat himself, but he didn't. She went on, "I thought..perhaps…you'd—might do you good." He turned to her then, a puzzled look on his face. "You know. To get out for a bit," she explained. He shook his head, and what was she to do now? If she didn't go after she had said she needed to…he'd not take kindly to knowing she and his sergeant thought he needed a minder.

Her dismay must have shown on her face for he said, "Nah…it's not—getting out a bit sounds good. It's just…I thought..I thought you were…you know. Leaving."

"I won't do that, Robbie. Not until you want me to go."

"In that case, Laura," he said, "I reckon you may just have to marry me for I'm never going to want you to go—not now, mind. I'd never ask you now, but…if things turn out—"

She shook her head at him and grinned in sudden relief and joy. "Do you really think how the Complaints call this makes the slightest difference to me about whether I want to be with you or not? You're not the job, Robbie. And I'd be more than happy to marry you any day of the week." He pulled her into a hug, and Val smiled in the picture on the shelf behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

Forensics had come through in a big way. It would take time for the final analysis, but…Hafton was falling apart. The careful planning and execution of his first murder had begun to develop cracks when it came to putting his wife into that rose-scented water. Oh, he'd been careful and crafty, but not enough. Perhaps killing her had proven harder emotionally than he had expected. Or maybe Lewis had rattled him enough to make fissures start to appear. Or maybe having committed one murder, having started down that path of madness...maybe it had taken on a life of its own. Though, perhaps, the madness had come first…

With Forensics preliminary report in hand, Hathaway was finally able to begin building a case against Hafton that would stand up in court.

He would have had an easier time of it if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the progress of the other ongoing investigation. He knew Maitland and Joslin had been busily interviewing Innocent, Hafton, the constables at the scene of the first murder, and any and every one in between. They'd dug through the old complaint books; sat through several hours of interview tapes; and who knew what else. And there'd been at least that one interview with Lewis.

The inspector hadn't had much to say about that. "Maitland's all right," Lewis had told him when Hathaway had pried for details. That had been all he'd gotten. Not a subject Lewis was prepared to discuss with him; Hathaway sympathized.

DSI Maitland and Investigator Joslin managed to stay out of Hathaway's way most of the time he spent at the station. Off interrogating witnesses or poking their noses into a decent man's business he supposed. Occasionally, he had no choice but to rub shoulders with one or both of them. It never got any easier to stomach knowing what they were there for.

Not that Maitland didn't keep trying to make him believe they weren't the enemy.

"Then why are you still here?" he called her on it one day. "Why haven't you pronounced Lewis innocent and gone off to wherever you came from?"

Joslin glowered at him and beat her to the punch, "We plan on doing the job right…when we have all the facts, we go—"

"And just how much longer will that be?" Hathaway demanded.

Maitland held up her hand to forestall Joslin's answer. "It's all right, Jer. Make yourself scarce, eh?" Joslin huffed but gathered up his electronic notepad and the files he'd been studying and made himself scarce. She turned back to Hathaway then. "We've got to follow procedure, Sergeant…quite honestly, I don't like that anymore than you do."

"How's that?"

She contemplated him a moment before glancing at the door to make sure Joslin had shut it after him. "I'll tell you," she said, "but it's not to be bandied about. I had to fight to keep this case. You know why?" Of course, he didn't…and he didn't much care, but she didn't let that stop her. "Because many years ago," she drew that out and gave him a small grin to tell him she knew what he was thinking, "I was a CID sergeant—not unlike you. Not Cambridge material, of course, but…I was gung ho. Very into my job. Stopping the bad guys, protecting the innocent…you know.

"Now I'm not saying it's ever happened to you, but…sometimes we'd come up against some cases that…well, that really mattered. I did a lot of crimes against women stuff…lecturing the troops, consulting—that sort of thing. And I was brought into a case where young women were being killed. Very ugly and escalating. The senior investigating officer was—well, we all were determined to stop the killer before he killed someone else." She paused, and Hathaway had a feeling he really didn't want to hear what else she had to say behind closed doors.

"Well…all roads lead to Rome. In this case, a car dealership we'd linked both women to. That was pretty compelling…we didn't think there was time before the next killing—to go through procedure…Morse and I. But as I'm sure you're very aware Morse had his own sergeant…not that unlike the two of us, eh? Only here's the thing, he believed in the process, and he believed people are innocent until proved guilty according to the law. Morse and I…" she sighed. "Well, we'd forgotten that, hadn't we? We'd declared Jeremy Boynton guilty, and we were prepared to do whatever had to be done to put him behind bars. We were so convinced we were right…

"A lesser man, a man who might grow up to be an inspector capable of the accusations Hafton's leveled…well, he might have looked the other way because it really did look like Boynton was our man, and Morse—you didn't want to get his dander up. And Robbie loved the man...to have to call down a man you respect and emulate like that—takes courage most men don't have. And, of course, Morse didn't listen to him. Another woman was killed while Boynton was in the hospital because of us…he was completely innocent. I don't know if Morse learned his lesson; I certainly did.

"But it was a lesson Robbie hadn't needed to learn—he already had it down pat. I knew as soon as they gave me this case that there wouldn't be anything to it. But I had to promise my governor I'd follow procedure…check under every rock, talk to everyone involved, you know the drill. It hurts—awful thing when the copper involved might very well be dirty; absolutely dreadful putting someone like Robbie through the wringer—but he wouldn't want me to do anything less…so, let's call a truce, eh?

"The most damning evidence we've gotten is from your own testimony—and, none of that!" she ordered when Hathaway's dismay flashed across his face. "You told the truth: you had some concerns, you voiced them…part of being a good police officer. If you can't be truthful in your own statements how can you expect to get the truth from those you interview? I'd hope Robbie didn't get saddled with a sergeant without that much integrity. And you know, the truth will set you free.

"Robbie backs up your testimony and his explanations are valid enough to counter it…it all comes down to Hafton's word against Robbie's. We have to give Hafton's word more weight…it's rotten but even if he wasn't a lord, the scales would tip his way—the rights of the citizen, yada, yada. It won't be enough to make charges stick but…it's going to be difficult to clear the record at this point. There will always be a question and for a man like Robbie…" she shook her head. "I want to wipe this all out. Permanently. Decisively. But…I think that is going to be down to you, Sergeant—if Hafton's the killer Robbie thinks he is then none of this ever amounted to the paper it was filed on."

After that Hathaway left them to their job and put all of his energy into finishing his.

"Thank you for coming in," Innocent told Lewis when he arrived in answer to her summons. He didn't respond, and she knew he wasn't going to make things easy on her. Well, why should he? His days away from the station had not treated him kindly and it showed in his lined face. She still didn't know what she could have done differently, but she'd forever regret not having done it.

He hadn't deserved what he'd gone through, the suspension, the accusations, interrogations, and investigation—she'd known good officers treated similarly who'd never darkened the door of a police station again even once their name had been cleared. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd refused to come in. She suspected though that the other had been just as hard or harder on him. He'd foreseen a tragedy and been unable to stop it, what did that do to a man? Did Lady Hafton's face follow him through his dreams? Did her death haunt him? As it did the chief superintendent who'd been told with certainty it was coming and failed to do anything to stop it?

He shifted uncomfortably before her, and she pushed all that to the back of her mind. She wouldn't be asking him such things, and he certainly wouldn't be volunteering that sort of information. Following one of their more troubling cases, she'd once insisted he look into counseling, but he'd resisted longer and harder than she'd pushed. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Not now, not after this. She would simply have to trust him to work things out for himself—if he could.

"I…I want you to know—" she started, but his scowl silenced her apology before she could get it out. "Um…right. Well…I…anyway, the IPPC report is in." He didn't look surprised, and, surely, he wasn't. He'd have guessed why she'd asked him to come in. But neither did he look eager or relieved. He had to know the charges had been found unsubstantiated; no one could have expected or believed otherwise. "They're throwing out the case against you…I'm glad to say," she threw the last in there even though he didn't want to hear it and maybe wouldn't be able to bring himself to believe it.

"But, it will be there, in me records, waiting for the next time," Lewis said.

"No. Your record is cleared."

"How's that? My word against his…I know how that's got to come down in a case like this."

"Normally," she agreed, "but, in this case…you might want to see this…" she picked up the warrant for the arrest of Lord Philip Hafton sitting on her desk. "He's in a meeting right now…I've been asked to wait to bring him in until it's over, but he'll be in custody this afternoon. You've got a good sergeant there. Not many like him. He's done a good job—the charges will stand."

"I never doubted that, Ma'am," Lewis said, and she did her best not to wince. His face still wore its hooded expression, and she knew he was still unwilling to hear her apology.

"Well, anyway…um," she gave up on words and instead held out his badge and warrant card.

For one tense moment, he frowned at it as though he wasn't inclined to accept it. When he finally did, she had a moment's fear he was about to chuck it into her rubbish bin, but he slipped it into his inner coat pocket where it belonged. Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there watching him go…and it wasn't until he turned left towards his office and not right towards the elevator leading to the main doors that she breathed a sigh of relief.

As Maitland and Joslin had cleared out earlier, Hathaway was alone when Lewis stepped into the room and looked about as though he'd forgotten quite what it looked like.

Hathaway jumped to his feet and said, "Sir!"

Lewis sniffed his 'don't fuss, Sergeant' sniff and said, "Sergeant. I hear good things about you."

Trying to match Lewis' obvious desire to keep his return low key, Hathaway said, "And who's been spreading that rumour?"

"That would be your number one fan…she says you've done good work on the Hafton case."

"I sincerely hope so," Hathaway said. He reached into his desk and retrieved Lewis' picture.

Lewis settled it back where it belonged, ran his hand over the back of his chair, and sat down. "Quite," he said.

The phone rang then. It was time. Hathaway pulled on his suit coat and looked at Lewis. "Coming?" he asked.

"No, I'll leave him to you. I'll see him in court."

"Right, then…you'll be here, though? When we get back?"

Lewis rubbed his nose and said, "Oh, aye…if I have to stare at my walls at home another hour I'll have to hang new paper—and I'll have me back out again. I'm sure I can find something to occupy myself with while you're out." Hathaway laughed and headed off to collect the chief superintendent…this was one arrest she'd insisted on having a part in.


	9. Chapter 9

The day was fair. Far too fair. Small, school children were about, running here and there along the public pathway where Hathaway, DCS Innocent, and a couple of burly constables caught up with Lord Hafton. The children laughed and called to one another as they ran from one clump of vegetation to the next, identifying flora—or at least attempting to— and bringing smiles to the faces of several senior citizens sitting on the benches along the pathway enjoying the sunshine.

Old people and children…if they'd expected any trouble they would have waited to take Hafton. The man was a lord; he'd just left an important governmental meeting—they expected him to come quietly, incensed with rage no doubt but not enough to make a public spectacle of himself. Not when he had his expensive solicitors on beck and call and could expect they'd have him released in a matter of hours. He'd huff and puff, threaten and posture, but he'd play the gentleman.

Lewis could have told them they were expecting too much from a man seduced by the dark side of murder; he'd recognized the madman in the fancy suit. But Lewis wasn't there. By the time, Hathaway and Innocent read the madness in Hafton's eyes it was too late.

Old people and children.

Hafton saw them coming. And suddenly, there was a revolver in his hand as though they'd found themselves walking into a show on the box whose writers had run out of any original ideas. The man had been at a governmental meeting—where in the world had that gun come from? That was Hathaway's first thought because it was so much easier to send his mind scurrying off in that direction than that of the old people and children still enjoying the far-too-fair day.

"Lord Hafton," Innocent began, "that's not—"

"What?" Hafton demanded. "It's not what? What I want to do…oh, there you're wrong, fair lady, it's exactly what I want to do. I heard, you see…they cleared Lewis. I knew then he'd be coming…but I'm ready for him—he thought he could stop me, stand in my way. Well, I have something to say about that!" He raised the gun and fired above Innocent's head.

The sound of laughing children cut off and was replaced by screams and startled exclamations. Automatically, one of the constables hit the ground; the rest of the group ducked and covered their heads.

Hafton laughed. "Next time, I won't miss," he threatened. He looked about and demanded, "So where is he? Where's Lewis?"

"Safe from the likes of you," Hathaway said. He'd straightened by then, moved forward to position himself slightly in front of the constable still on the ground. Behind his back he waved his hand and willed the man to understand his intent. Innocent stepped forward to join him. And the second constable. Forming a shield allowing the man on the ground to slip away if they could keep Hafton's attention. "Inspector Lewis would never let the likes of you catch him unawares."

"He's more than your match," Innocent chimed in.

Hafton laughed insanely and ranted in true egomaniacal style of his superiority; the man behind them reached the cover of low bushes to the side of the path. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he slipped along drawing the children nearest them away into the bushes. The adults behind Hafton's back followed his example and began to herd the children near them away as well. It was a slow, painstaking process, and Hathaway, trying desperately to not track their movements with his eyes, was all too aware that even if they managed to get all those behind and off to the far side of Hafton …there were that many more still well within the madman's sight.

"Call him," Hafton said, cutting his rant short and pointing his gun at Innocent. "Call the Geordie and get him out here…"

Innocent slowly drew out her mobile and pushed buttons. Hafton frowned and looked about him—

Hathaway knew their time was up. Hafton would see the missing children. His rage would spend the rest of his bullets on those cowering and crying children that remained. It was, he knew, now or never—Innocent must have felt him tensing. She grabbed his arm. Without looking at him, she shook her head as she called out to Hafton.

"Lewis wants to talk to you. He won't come unless you speak to him."

Hafton focused back on her. "He's your man! Order him to get down here—be the boss lady!"

"You know him," Innocent said. "He doesn't listen to me…does what he wants."

"He'll come if I tell him to!"

"Yes, I'm sure he will," she said and waved her phone towards him but her eyes were on Hathaway. He stifled a groan; he'd seen the look in them before. Lewis with a flicker of his eyes there at the fountain…yeah—that had worked so well a bystander had been killed and Hathaway himself shot.* But the bystander had been there by choice and Hathaway because it was his place to be there… these children and senior citizens? He'd been ready just a moment before but now it seemed like a very bad idea. "Lord Hafton?" Innocent called loudly to Hafton and then in a hissed aside assured Hathaway, ""It will be fine. Just do it."

Hafton threw up his free hand in disgust. "Right, then—give it to me!"

As Innocent stepped forward, Hathaway hung back wondering how he was to know when the time was right. Innocent took another step and another. Hathaway swallowed hard and—Innocent's hand behind her back motioned him forward. He shot towards Hafton as Innocent hurled her mobile at the revolver in Hafton's hand. The gun went off as Hathaway's momentum carried both he and Hafton to the ground. The constable must have been only a few steps behind; he'd kicked the gun out of Hafton's hand and pinned the lord to the ground before Hathaway had managed to regroup.

The shot had gone off so near him that for a moment he couldn't hear. He looked about himself and could see that the world had not suddenly gone silent but it was as if he'd accidently muted the world. Innocent stood over him. Speaking words he couldn't hear. Concern etched in her face. And then with a painful 'pop' someone pressed the mute button and he could hear again. For what good it did him. He still couldn't take in her words. Couldn't think clearly at all. Could only sit there and shake. Innocent looked up and signaled to someone he couldn't see. She put a hand on his shoulder and spoke gibberish to someone.

"Thank goodness you're here…I've got to see to this lot, but he's in a bad way. See if you can get him sorted, won't you?"

"Leave him to me." And then Lewis was squatting down in front of him. "Sergeant," he said, and Hathaway fought down an almost overriding desire to throw himself into his inspector's arms as though he were a small, frightened boy and Lewis his father.

"Sir," he choked out.

"Come on," Lewis said, motioning back towards his car with his head. "Let's get out of here."

Hathaway stared at him. Trapped in the terror of the afternoon, it hadn't even occurred to him that he could escape, but, suddenly, here was Lewis promising a way out. Hathaway could have wept—and he may have—with gratitude.

Lewis reached down and pulled him to his feet. "All right?" he asked as Hathaway stood there swaying on legs which threatened not to hold him. But the promise of escape was strong enough to keep him upright and propel him to the inspector's car.


	10. Chapter 10

Lewis slid in behind the steering wheel and looked over at his sergeant whose face was so white that the blue of his eyes seemed to burn out of it.

"Did I…that shot…did I…did it hit anyone?"

"Nah. Everyone's fine…including you."

Hathaway shook his head. "No. No…I'm not. I'll never be again, not really."

"Give it a little time—"

"It's not that easy, Sir!"

Lewis sighed. Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried to see the silver lining there just wasn't one. There were times when the job was just too much. "No, James, it's not," he was forced to agree.

"I need a drink," Hathaway said. Hearing the raw need in his sergeant's voice, Lewis frowned. There was needing a drink and there was _needing _a drink, and Lewis who'd _needed _a good many drinks after losing his wife to the point he'd practically thrown his own life away and who'd worked with Morse who'd _needed _a drink right into an early grave wasn't sure it was at all what Hathaway needed.

"Could be," he allowed because who was he to really know what the man needed. "Or might be that what you really need is—"

"Not a bracing lecture, Sir. Not now. Not after—have you never been here yourself? Haven't you ever been afraid?" Hathaway fairly shouted the words at Lewis.

Oh, yes. There'd been times, too many times, Lewis had been afraid. More than afraid. Frightened half out of his mind. For his wife when…yeah. For the kids, too, though they'd managed to avoid most of the pitfalls of growing up in this confusing, dangerous day and of losing their mam. For his own mam when his dad had died… there'd been the fears for Morse, as well. Those when the chief inspector would be almost too despondent for words, or too incensed to think straight, or dying in hospital while Lewis was off chasing down yet another murderer. Not the sort of fears that Hathaway was on about for all they'd been real enough.

"Time or two," he said lightly, still hoping to jolly Hathaway out of his shock. Hathaway scowled at him, and Lewis knew he hadn't managed to slip off the hook. But what could he say? He wasn't a brave man himself. He'd never played the hero as Hathaway had just done. Taking down an assailant before harm could be done. With children running about as well. Who was he to think he could sort Hathaway?

Oh, Lewis had stared into the eyes of a killer holding a gun on him more than once, and he'd always managed to stand his ground. But that was hardly the same. Nothing courageous or the like…

Wytham Woods? He'd bumbled right into the sights of a murderer totally unawares; and it had been Morse's heroism that had kept him from being buried in the rough-hewn grave he'd dug himself.

Crevecoeur? He'd went running smack into that one thinking his sergeant was the one in trouble, never expecting to be the one in danger of getting his head blown off. He'd stood his ground, but not out of any sense of bravery. He either kept talking and hoped for the best or he died. Nothing heroic about that.

Gresham College? He'd not faced that gun unawares. No, stupidity had put him there he supposed. He'd come close to getting either himself or his sergeant shot simply because he hadn't thought things through. He'd known Babs Temple was down there with access to the gun club's weapons. But he'd gone charging in anyway…and as Morse had saved him in the woods, Hathaway had saved him in that basement. It was Hathaway who had shown the courage there once again…been lucky to walk out alive. *

And Lewis wasn't a brave enough man to dwell too long on what had happened down there in those interminable few seconds. He'd thought he'd managed to talk Babs into handing him the gun. Hoped anyway, but…she'd started to raise it and—carry through her original plan to kill herself or blow his head off? There hadn't been time to know or react—Hathaway had thrown himself between her and Lewis, knocked the gun to the side. The wild shot—well, it had put Babs down but she'd survived unlike the wild shot that had killed Mrs. Michaels in the woods or the one that had taken down Philip Coleman at Crevecoeur. Morse and Hathaway…they'd saved him, put themselves in jeopardy and did what needed doing.

No, in the face of danger and fear like that, Lewis had never stepped up to the plate.^ He'd managed to survive, that was all he could say. He couldn't imagine that would help Hathaway. And he couldn't bring himself to force out, "Sure I have…who hasn't? Buck up, Sergeant, we've all been there." The sergeant might or might not need a drink, but he certainly didn't need that sort of codswallop.

What Hathaway did need, what Lewis might have told his sergeant, he couldn't bring himself to put into words…

_Lewis had been meant to be away. The family should have been off to Oxford that morning for a visit with Val's folks. But there'd been a call in—all leave rescinded, report immediately or face immediate suspension. Lewis had never received such a call before. He'd pulled on his uniform, thrown a mute plea for forgiveness at Val, and made the trip to the station in record time. There his confusion had turned to growing horror as he and his mates were issued full riot gear and herded into the lorries…_

_They'd been trained, of course, they had. An afternoon standing about the station car park trying to hear the instructor over the traffic and wind, listening to things that had seemed so far removed from their lives as to be incomprehensible, slipping on the heavy jackets, running their hands over the smooth truncheon handles, smelling the overpowering smell of rubber as they fumbled with the gas masks…but this wasn't training and Lewis wasn't the only one whose hands were trembling so hard that he had trouble donning the heavy gear._

_And that would have been enough. But things only grew worse from there…they'd piled out of the lorries at a make-do staging area…the car park of the primary school his daughter would attend when term started up again. A rioting crowd was two blocks over, black smoke already starting to rise in the sky and the rumble of hundreds of angry voices already reaching them where they were mustering. _

_And his Val and bairns within shouting distance. _

_Somehow, he'd managed to make eye contact with his sergeant. The man had frowned and hesitated but in the end he'd given Lewis the nod._

_"Three minutes, Constable…be no more than three minutes behind us or you'll never put on another uniform."_

_Lewis had been running before the sergeant finished speaking. There'd been no time to try to soften the blow for Val, only desperate, frantic barked commands: barricade the doors, cover the windows with anything at hand, stick to the inner rooms, keep the kids close, keep them quiet, don't go out for anything—not anything! His frightened children had stared at him as though he were a stranger, but there'd been no time to assure them he was their own dad and he loved them with all of his being. He had grabbed Val and kissed her forehead before dashing for the door. She'd whispered a stricken 'Robbie' behind him. He'd turned then, only for an instant, for there wasn't time for anything more. He willed her to know he loved her for he couldn't choke the words out and then he was rushing back the way he'd come._

_He was those three minutes behind his unit…three minutes. He'd tried to force his way through to get to them but found himself pushed into formation with men he didn't know. Their sarge motioned to a spot and Lewis, still gasping for air as though he'd just run a marathon, took his place. _

_There was a lull then. The men in the lines milling about, their faces as white as Lewis' own, their hands hovering over their truncheons. The low cast clouds forced the rising smoke back down on them and their nervous coughs and shuffling feet were sounds Lewis would remember until the day he died. That and the rising roar of the mob. The bullhorns and sirens, the clatter of the armored vehicles and fire trucks, the shattering of broken glass...he'd watch the newscasts later and know they had to have been there, but for him it had only been the noises of frightened men preparing for battle._

_And then the mob had shifted their way. _

_The men in front started to give way pushing Lewis and his fellows back before them._

_"Hold the line," the sarge hollered and somehow his voice carried over the bedlam. There was the smell of blood and fear and the yells of the angry mob, screams, and the moans of the fallen. In front of Lewis, men were dying (men in uniform here; the next street over it was civilians going down beneath the blows of police batons); behind him, his wife and children huddled defenseless and alone._

_"We've got to fall back!" the man next to Lewis shouted. _

_"No!" Lewis yelled. "We can't…we stand here!" The line faltered against the strength of the onslaught, men next to him stumbled back. Lewis stood. _

_For a moment, he stood alone. _

_Then the sarge was beside him, hurling insults and threats, and men clutched their truncheons and stepped up to fill the gaps. The mob turned back the way it had come. _

_Three minutes. That's all the farther Lewis had been back than the other lads from his station. Those three minutes were all that had stood between him and almost certain death or injury. His mates' blood ran in the streets; their trampled, battered bodies left behind as the mob moved away; their cries and dying breaths lost in the receding roar of the frenzied mob. Three minutes._

_ Armed forces would arrive to force the mob farther and farther away. The streets in Lewis' neighborhood would not be threatened by its mindless fury again. The riot here was over._

_In its aftermath…there were injured to see to until the ambulance crews could arrive, fires to contain, civilians along the street needing reassured and sorted. Lewis had always been a man to do his job regardless of what else was happening around him. But there was the job and there was the family and there were his mates dead in the street and his wife…if the news reached her before he did…_

_ Impossible for a man to think straight in such circumstances; mindlessly, Lewis carried on doing what needed doing, his thoughts in a small, cramped, and dark basement flat where he could only hope his family were safely away from the nightmare in which he worked. _

_"You're Lewis?" a voice queried, and he looked up to see the chief super standing beside him. Frowning, sober, dressed in a uniform that fairly shone besides Lewis' bloodied, soot, and grime-covered own._

_Lewis nodded his affirmation. _

_"From Pellin Street Station?" Another nod. Words were beyond Lewis. Beyond all of them working on the street. There had been in the initial aftermath the murmured words with which they had tried to comfort the wounded, the quiet reassurances they'd offered the citizens emerging from their homes, but after that… the men worked with their mouths clamped tightly shut against the grief and horror welling up in them._

_The super went on, "You know the lads then…and their families?" Another nod. "I'm given to understand yours is just down the way…wife and—two kiddies, is it? And you've not been home to see to them…why's that?"_

_Lewis mutely motioned at the chaos surrounding them. The Chief nodded and looked away. "Good lad," he said. Lewis took that as a dismissal and turned back to his work, but the Chief wasn't through with him yet. "You're wanting to be off home though…see with your own eyes they made it through—let your wife see you, know you're not among them that's hurt or…worse." Even then, with the hope rising in him, Lewis couldn't choke out a 'yes, Sir'. "I'll tell you, son…and I don't suppose you'll count it a favour, but I'll give you ten minutes to gan off home and see to yours. But you're to clean yourself up as best you can and put on a clean uniform…I need someone with me who knew those lads when I show meself to their mams and wives—you'll have to do, Constable—I'm that sorry."_

_The relief of seeing each other alive and unharmed took the feet out from under both Lewis and his wife…they ended up in a heap on their threshold with their children hovering about them._

_"I heard…they said…" Val tried to say but she couldn't put the horror of what she'd heard into words. As for Lewis, he couldn't go there. Couldn't tell his wife the names of the men he'd worked and joked and drank the odd pint with who were even then being loaded into the lorries, some destined for the morgue and others hospital; couldn't tell her the terror and horror he'd seen and survived. Her took her face in his hands and kissed her, and then did the same to each of his children. He wiped away their tears and did his best to smile reassuringly at them._

_"I can't stay," he eventually choked out. And that had taken more courage than he had known he had. Val closed her eyes at his words and the children cried out in dismay, but all too soon he'd pulled on his clean uniform and accepted the hurriedly thrown together lunch Val pressed into his hands. (Lewis, who was never off his food, would pass Val's sandwiches and biscuits and thermos of tea on to one of the lads before he headed off with the Chief Super, he couldn't stomach even the thought of eating.) His children clutched his legs and begged him not to go; he pulled them up into his arms and kissed them again before putting them down with a finality they knew not to argue with. Val shook her head when he went to kiss her and turned her face away so she didn't have to watch as he left them again. But she'd run into the street after him before he'd gotten far. He clutched her tightly to him for far too short of a time._

_"I love you, Robbie Lewis," she told him through her tears. "Come home to me." Before that morning, he would have laughed at her concern. Now, he licked his lips, fought back his own tears, and nodded his head; he'd never again be able to promise her he'd be back with the casual assurance he'd always had before. He forced himself to turn away from her, to hurry back down the street to find the Chief Super. _

_It had taken a different sort of courage that. To stand there on the stoop with his hat in his hand and see the understanding in the eyes and faces of the mothers and fathers, wives and children of those who had fallen while he'd survived. To stand their unscratched and watch their bodies crumple with the pain of their loss, to see in them his own wife and parents…_

Lewis had never before or ever again experienced fear as strong and all-encompassing as he had that day. He had soldiered through though…all that long, horrible day and those that followed it. Somehow he'd survived it (though not as unscratched as he'd initially thought as he slowly discovered over the next few days when the bruises and aches made themselves known).

"Sir?" his sergeant said, still waiting for an answer Lewis found himself incapable of giving. He sniffed and ran a hand over his face, swallowed and opened his mouth…tried to come up with the words, but even after all this time, even with his sergeant needing him to say something—he wasn't quite brave enough to drag that memory out into the light of day and have to deal once again with the pain and horror of that day.

Something else then…something for Hathaway to hold on to.

There'd been times when digging up the moral courage to stand up and do what was right had been a very frightening prospect. The confrontations with Morse over Boynton… Marriot and Boynton.** Fortunately, they were far from the sort of thing Hathaway was wrestling with for Lewis preferred even now not to bring those times to mind. After all these years they still left a sick taste in the back of his throat and an ache deep within him. And…even if they had been what his sergeant needed, Lewis wouldn't have told him those sad tales; they didn't paint his old inspector in the best of lights, and Lewis wouldn't do that to Morse even though he'd been gone all these years.

Lewis sighed. What then?

The fire at Zoë's flat? The psychopath on the roof of St. Oswald's with his hands around Morse's neck? Hobson screaming in the dark of the old graveyard? Oh, aye, he'd had his share of fearful moments, but…***

He met Hathaway's eyes and said, "Maybe it is _a_ drink you need after all, Sergeant." If it was something else Hathaway was needing, Lewis didn't have it to give.

It was Hathaway's turn to wish he could choke out an 'it's okay, Sir. I didn't mean it' sort of comment for it was all too obvious that Hathaway had asked him for more than which he had any right. There was no doubt that his governor was all too aware of what Hathaway was going through.

And somehow that did make a difference.

Knowing Lewis had been through similar times and survived—even if he couldn't talk about them— gave Hathaway hope he'd make it as well.

And it wasn't like he hadn't been here before himself. There'd been Crevecoeur though even with the painful burn of the bullet grazing his arm Paul Hopkiss with a gun had never felt much more real to him than when they'd been Butch and Sundance shooting sticks across the grassy expanses of the Mortmaigne estate. Not with everything else being there had brought to life. That scene by the fountain had hardly been the worst part of that case.

But on its heels had come the nightmare in the gun club—seeing Babs raise that gun and Lewis right there in front of her so close she couldn't miss if she took the shot and then…the shot echoing through the basement; the smell of it mixing with that of hot blood; the sounds of Bab's moans and Jez's cries; and Hathaway standing there staring at Lewis trying to staunch the blood flow from a gunshot wound that so easily could have been his own, trying to convince himself that Lewis was alive and unharmed and not quite able to.

Because the last time he'd felt such terror…a young woman had died in his arms. She'd balanced in the split second between life and death; tomorrow and eternity…and he'd been that half a second too slow, that lifetime too late. There'd been no one there beside him then. Only his music to keep him sane and the remnants of a faith he'd thought he'd lost. And he'd survived. Somehow. Well, he'd survived by joining the police force; trying to make sure he'd never be that helpless again. Only it didn't seem to have worked out that way.

But the fears he'd faced on the force…he'd had Lewis there beside him with his quiet compassion and understated concern to get him through the worst of them. And never had that required Lewis to bare his soul…enough to know he understood; he'd survived the same sort of fears and experiences. And enough that he was there.

Hathaway drew in a long breath and held it a moment before exhaling. "Maybe it's a cigarette I need," he said.

Lewis snorted. "You're determined to kill yourself one way or another today, is it? Maybe should have let Hafton do it for you—sure to be quicker." He started the car and pulled out into the street.

"Where are we going?" Hathaway asked.

Lewis glanced over at him and then back at the road. "The road goes on and on and others follow it who can," he quoted.

"The Hobbit?" Hathaway asked surprised despite the tiredness suddenly swamping him.

Lewis shook his head. "Morse. And I think…let's just follow the road awhile, shall we? See where it leads."

Hathaway gave him a small chuckle and nodded his head. They drove on then in companionable silence…and the road went on and on before them. ^*

The End

_Author's Note: As I was putting the finishing touches on this, WhyAye happened to mention Lewis quoting from Rudyard Kipling's _If _at the end of _The Way Through the Woods_. It's a shame I hadn't thought of that myself because it so perfectly encapsulates what I wanted this story to say…sadly, it was far too late at that point to try to work it in. But if you haven't read it lately it has a lot to say about courage and matters of conscience. _

* The Way Through the Woods (Inspector Morse); The Dead of Winter (Lewis); Dark Matter (Lewis)

^This is, of course, meant to be Lewis' view of his actions…I think it's perfectly clear in these scenes that Lewis was just as ready to act as Morse or Hathaway. And I hope it's clear throughout this story, that whatever sort of courage is needed in a situation, Lewis has it in spades.

** Dead on Time (Inspector Morse); Driven to Distraction (Inspector Morse)

***Life Born of Fire (Lewis); Service of All the Dead (Inspector Morse); Falling Darkness (Lewis)

^*_Who Killed Harry Field?_ (Inspector Morse) What can I say? My house being full of folks counting down the days for the Hobbit to open in theatres here, Morse quoting Tolkien at the end of this episode was just too coincidental for it not to stick in my mind after I finished my _What the Chief Inspector Saw_ story and here it is popping up again.


End file.
